


speak to me of love (parlez-moi d'amour)

by slipperysailors



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Between Moneypenny & Q, Eve Moneypenny & Q Friendship, Eve Moneypenny Ships James Bond/Q, Eve Moneypenny is a Good Friend, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Navy, No Combat, Original Character(s), POV Q (James Bond), Period-Typical Homophobia, Q Branch, Q Is Gay, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Set During World War II, The Royal Navy, World War II, no slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28876308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipperysailors/pseuds/slipperysailors
Summary: “The government’s asked for two million men.” Moneypenny looked half scorned already, “It’s not just the cold. Is it?”He takes a long sip of his tea, “You know what’s wrong.”“You don’t need to sign up,” Moneypenny assured, “There are others.”“I had to,” He replied, eyes focused on the rations on the counter. “Eve,” Q gripped her hand on the table, “Eve, if I didn’t they’d make me.”“So you’ll leave me? Like James did? Won’t write me back?”“You know I’m not him,”
Relationships: Eve Moneypenny & Q, James Bond & Eve Moneypenny, James Bond/Q
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	speak to me of love (parlez-moi d'amour)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note about this fic before you read:
> 
> There are no descriptions of combat, however events like Dunkirk are mentioned.  
> I tried to be as historically arcuate as possible, however there may be some mistakes.  
> If you spot any mistakes, please let me know in the comments.
> 
> Thank you :))

**Plymouth, England, June 1937**

“Come along Q! We're already late, come along!” Moneypenny called ahead of him in the street.

There was a skinny black haired man behind her who smiled and tuttered, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” but the woman had twirled her skirt in the summer sunshine and only laughed at him as she skipped a few meters ahead for him to catch up. 

“Hurry, hurry, or we’ll miss the boat coming in!” Q really does try to catch up with her, but she runs head first into a crowd and he almost loses sight of her floral attire among the other young women, before he catches her hand raised in the sea, “Q! Come on!” 

He chases her into the crowd and finally reaches her, and she wraps a comforting hand around his clothed bicep, tugs him along as they wriggle through people. “Look Q, look!” She throws her hand into the air and gestures at a huge war ship sailing past.

“It’s not as if I can miss the thing,” He said, unsure if she would even hear him among the crowd. Instead of getting another look at the ship, he turned his head to look at the docks, the bunting in red, white and blue along the streets, and if Q had thought that that the crowd here was big, then the crowds below them on the dockside were huge, bigger than anything Q had ever seen.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Moneypenny awed, and kept her eyes on the ship as it slowly gilded its way through the waters. Q follows her gaze to the thing, and twitches his nose uncomfortably as salt, sweat and fuel became the most overwhelming. 

“Sure you have, in the newspaper,” And she wacks him playfully on the arm.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Moneypenny gripped him again, “Come on, let’s get closer.” 

Q has no other choice but to follow her through the crowd again because she tugs and pulls him right through the sea of people once more, men and women give them disgruntled looks but he can’t apologise quick enough. 

“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Q mumbled, “It’s only a bloody big ship.”

-/-/-

**London, England, April 1938**

“You look beautiful,” He takes Moneypenny’s hands into his own, and she truly does look stunning in her white gown, “I can’t thank you enough for this.”

“You know, it’s bad luck to see a bride in her wedding gown before the ceremony Q, even if I’m not a real one,” She said, and cupped his face in one hand,

“I wish you could be someone’s real bride.” 

“I don’t,” Moneypenny said sternly, and levels her eyes with his, “I want you to live Q, and that’s better than any wish of being a real bride. Besides, you’re the only man I can stand to be around without having to drink myself out of boredom.”

Q laughed, and shook his head in fond consideration, “I wish you didn’t have to, marry me to protect me,”

“I’d protect you to my dying breath if it meant to see you happy and free, you know that?”

“I do, as I would for you.”

“Then we will be perfectly good as husband and wife, if not better, because we share our secrets, and do not keep them tucked under the carpet, and we would die for one another. Unlike some.”

Q remembers Moneypenny’s distasteful stare at her parents as they had bickered all the way from the countryside to the city. He knows Moneypenny is thinking of it too but he says nothing of it. Instead, he places a firm hand on her waist, and offers his other to her.

“May I have this dance, Miss Moneypenny?” He asked, and her smile lights up quicker than a match striking.

“Only to you, will I always be a Miss Moneypenny,” She said, and took his hand, placed her other on his shoulder. There is no music, but they sway around the room, as best friends enjoying one another’s company, rather than soon to be husband and wife.

-/-/-

**London, England, September 1939**

**__** _“- It is to this high purpose that I now call my people at home and my peoples across the seas, who will make our cause their own. I ask them to stand calm, firm, and united in this time of trial. The task will be hard. There may be dark days ahead, and war can no longer be confined to the battlefield. But we can only do the right as we see the right, and reverently commit our cause to God._

_If one and all we keep resolutely faithful to it, ready for whatever service or sacrifice it may demand, then, with God’s help, we shall prevail._

_May He bless and keep us all.”_

The radio crackled, and Q had good sense to turn it right off after the speech. Moneypenny stood in the room with him, and watched him take a cigarette from the packet. She takes one from her own packet, and looks out the window.

“Shit,” is all Q had the mind to say, and Moneypenny kept her eyes locked into the blue sky. She doesn’t look at him, and lights the cigarette with a look of shock plastered over her face. 

She took a drag from the cigarette and turned sharply, “What about James?” She asked, “He’s already serving, Q, what about James?”

“I don’t know,” He hadn’t a clue who James was, but Q looks at her watery eyes and puts his unlit cigarette aside, “Come here,” He holds his arms open, and she shakes her head before slowly moving into his space and wrapping her arms around him. Her cigarette is hot against his back. “Who is he?”

“I grew up with him, Q, you know?” Her voice is slightly muffled because it’s pressed into his shoulder, “I haven’t seen him for years, he joined the navy on his eighteenth birthday, and well now I’d guess he’s just over thirty.”

“You love him?”

She laughs into his shoulder, “I was _a child,_ Q, he was practically my big brother. He used to write to me when he first left, and then after several years the letters stopped.” They pull apart, “You’d have hated him, you know? He was a right arrogant twat.”

“I don’t doubt your judgement.” He picked up the cigarette again, and lit it in front of her. A pained silence fell between them, Moneypenny unwilling to move more than a few feet from him as Q took a slow, melancholy inhale of the cigarette. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Moneypenny shook her head, “As far as I know, he’s still alive.” 

-/-/-

**London, England, November 1939**

“I wrote to him,” Moneypenny announced as she walked through the door wrapped in a thick black cardigan and drenched in the frozen afternoon downpours.

Q looked up from the pile of gears and noticed his glasses had slipped from the crook of his nose, “To who?” He asked, and pushed the bridge of his glasses with his least covered oil finger. 

“James, silly,” She said, and dragged a chair up to his workbench. She sat, legs folded over and fished in her bag for her packet of cigarettes, “He was awfully handsome, did you know? Not my type by any means, but I wrote to him,”

“And what did you write?”

“Oh, whatever I could think of, I wrote about the war, I wrote about London and I wrote about you,” 

“You didn’t mention the nature of our relationship, did you?” Q asked as he felt fear spike and prickle his skin.

“Of course I didn’t! Do you think I'm a bloody fool?” She exclaimed, “I spoke just about my wonderful genius husband and the usual besotted housewife material, not that James would care if a woman was married before he bedded her.”

“He sounds like an upstanding member of society,”

“Oh he is, dear Q, I hope one day you should meet him.” 

“Last you told me of him, you said I’d hate him.”

“Yes, you’d hate him for why everyone loves him,”

“And love him for why everyone hates him?” He suggested raising an eyebrow, and Moneypenny rolled her eyes but kept a half amused smile.

“No, you’d hate him for that too,”

“Then why are you ever so keen for us to meet, Moneypenny?”

She smirked and pried the cigarette from her red painted lips, “Decadence, darling, he’s exactly your type.”

“Truly?”

“Would I ever lie to you?”

He lets his hands rest and stops fiddling with the copper coils on his desk, “I look forward to meeting him.”

Moneypenny grins, “We await his response, then.”

-/-/-

**London, England, January 1940**

Moneypenny had stoked the fire and Q shuffled in, limbs stiff from the cold, and the wind howled behind him as the door shut hard with a thud.

“Q? Is that you?” She called out to him from the kitchen, and he ran his cold fingers down the buttons of his coat, unwilling to get out of it because the hall was blowing a draft. 

“Yes, just me,” He said, and decided it was best to keep the coat on until he had settled himself in the warmth of the house.

“Come quick, I have tea and soup ready,” Q followed her voice, and she stood shivering, wrapped up warm in a thick sweater and placed a teapot and bowl of soup down for him, “Did you hear? The Thames has frozen over,” 

“Good God,” He swore and took a seat at the table with her, “It is bloody freezing out there,”

“I know. Did you see the Thames Q?”

“Frozen,” He repeated her words absently as he poured the tea into his cup, eyes darting around the room to avoid her pressured gaze.

“Is something wrong, Q?”

“It’s cold,” He stared only into the cup, wrapped his skinny fingers around its body to warm his shivering hands, “It’s never been this cold.” 

She paused, glanced in his direction with wide knowing eyes, “You’re twenty four.”

They’re silent, “I’m twenty four.”

“Between the ages of nineteen and-“

“Twenty seven.” 

“The government’s asked for two million men.” Moneypenny looked half scorned already, “It’s not just the cold. Is it?”

He takes a long sip of his tea, “You know what’s wrong.”

“You don’t need to sign up,” Moneypenny assured, “There are others.”

“I had to,” He replied, eyes focused on the rations on the counter. “ _Eve_ ,” Q gripped her hand on the table, “ _Eve_ , if I didn’t they’d make me.”

“So you’ll leave me? Like James did? Won’t write me back?”

“You know I’m not him,” 

“You’re a genius, you don’t need to go to war. You can stay here, work here like you always have, can’t you?”

“I won't go to the battles, but I can’t stay and do nothing,” He squeezes her hand, “You know I can’t take a life, _you know that._ But I _can’t_ let men die when I know I could _help_.”

“Bloody hell, Q,” She blinked back her tears, “I know.”

-/-/-

**London, England, February 1940**

Q opens the door to two men dressed in blue naval uniforms, “Is this the residence of Dr Quentin Boothroyd?”

“Q, who is it?” Moneypenny called from behind him, 

He pressed a slender finger over his lips to the men, and they looked at him oddly before accepting the gesture. “I’ll just be a moment, dear,” He called back to her, slipped out and shut the door behind him. He pushed past the men, and gestured for them to follow him to the side of the house 

“Dr Boothroyd?” The taller of the two men asked.

“That would be me.”

The men nod, “I’m Lieutenant Hodges, and this is Petty Officer Franklin,” 

Franklin was the shorter man, darker haired than Hodges and his stare is inquisitive of Q. He looked disgruntled to be here with Hodges, unwilling to speak a word.

“How can I help you, Gentlemen?” 

“Your father was a naval engineer, Doctor?”

“Not quite, he designed the warships and didn't build them. Does this have something to do with me, Lieutenant? Or are we to talk about my father?” 

Hodges coughed uncomfortably, “You work with radio communications,”

“Among other things,”

“And you’re willing to join the war effort?”

“That _is_ why I contacted Mallory, yes. I assume that’s why you’re here,”

“It is. He’s requested you to come with us, to Plymouth.”

“Devonport?” Q asked

“Yes, that is where Admiral Mallory is based, as of current.” 

Q doesn’t question why Mallory is at HMNB Devonport, and scoffed, “Typical. You best come inside, Gentlemen.”

-/-/-

**Plymouth, England, February 1940**

Q fiddles with the ring around his finger, rubs the silver wedding band between his thumb and index finger, eyes focused thoughtfully on the white tiled floor ahead of him. Petty Officer Franklin had left them some time ago, another man had caught him as they had entered Devonport, and he’d been relieved of touring Q around the facility. It had left Lieutenant Hodges talking him through all the main offices and corridors, until leaving him at Mallory’s waiting room.

Not that Q needed it, for he’d been here when he was at the height of his father’s knees several times, and had tailed him around Devonport, looking in awe around the docks and facilities. He’d spent a lot of time in his father’s office, tilting his head as his father worked on blueprints and designs. But, Dr Boothryd had died shortly after these years of simplicity, after the great war and he had passed soundlessly in the night. 

He’d known Mallory from that time, Mallory hadn’t been admiral then, but he’d been of some importance. Important enough to ruffle Q’s unruly long hair and buy him ice cream all the while talking business with Q’s father. 

The door of Mallory’s office opened sharply, and suddenly, Q snapped up to see a man with short cropped blonde hair, a commander’s blue naval uniform, stride out with obnoxious confidence. He caught Q’s eyes with an icy piercing blue, before Q sharply looked away to the door held ajar by Mallory’s hand. 

“Bond, don’t cock it up,” Mallory nearly called, but his voice was in a loud authoritative commanding tone, that Mallory never sounded like he called after someone.

Bond, the commander, hesitates in his step, before turning around to face Mallory, “Of course, sir.” He exits the waiting room without looking back but his shoes leave a distinct strong thundering echo that is cut abruptly by Mallory’s sigh.

The Admiral turns to Q, to which Q rises professionally in recognition of the man’s rank. Mallory smiles at him, and fastens down a laugh tickling his throat, “He’s a bloody unpredictable man, Commander Bond, I’m sure you’ll be better introduced later,”

Q snorts, “I hope not, he seems rather arrogant,”

“That he is,” Mallory agrees, “Well, are you coming in?” 

“Of course.”

The rain is faint outside, and it patters on Mallory’s small office window, which lets in the stout light of the grey looming clouds. He takes a seat in the opposite chair to Mallory, and smiles back to him.

“How is Eve?”

Q grins, “She’s adjusting to married life well, very nervous about me moving out here. I suggested she come with me, see Plymouth again, but she’s already volunteering with the WVS and didn’t want to cause a fuss.”

“Ah, so she is well.”

“Quite, I think she rather likes helping in London, and who am I to stop her?”

Mallory laughed softly, “You two have always been a peculiar pair,”

“That is why she’s my wife,” Q beamed at him, but he knows he only does it to quiet any suspicions that Mallory may have had before he met Moneypenny. 

The Admiral nods only to convey his amused acknowledgement, and an expectant silence filters through the office. Q knows better than to pull a cigarette out to smoke and calm his nerves, but his leg twitches uncomfortably while Mallory seems to stare, to try and push awkward words out of Q’s mouth. But Q knows him, and knows that’s what he wants, so he waits for Mallory to move like they’re playing the first rounds of chess.

He reached to pull a draw in his desk and shoved a prim letter onto the desk in front of Q, “The official secrets act, you’ll have to sign it before I can tell you anything about your job here.”

“It’s already mine?” Q asked, but took the letter into his lithe piano fingers, and opened it.

“Yes, you’re a mathematical prodigy, Q, there’s hardly enough of you types to go around. As far as I’m aware, most of those like yourself are working with the Code and Cypher units, not the Navy.”

“I wanted something familiar,” Q replied in truth, eyes focused on the document as he read it. He neglected to add that Moneypenny had asked him to watch out for James. Of course, she’d never given him anything more than his first name and told him that he was of Q’s interest, so he had no idea how he’d find James.

“Sign at the bottom,” Mallory prompted, “Then I’ll show you your office and colleagues.”

Q nods, “And here I thought I was going to be given another tour by Lieutenant Hodges.”

-/-

**Plymouth, England, March 1940**

“Quartermaster?” Someone calls from the door, Q takes his head out of the faulty wiring he’s been working on and shifts his gaze to the young brunette girl with red painted lips at the entrance. “A letter for you,” She added, and walked in to place the letter beside him and leave again.

When Q is sure she has gone, the click of her heels disappearing down the corridor, he carefully picks the letter up and admires Moneypenny’s carefully formed cursive on the front. He grabbed a short flathead screwdriver from his desk and wedged it between the sticky folds of the envelope to use it like a letter opener. It tears open, and he takes out the papers with fine ink beautifully written on it.

_“Dear Q,_

_London is terribly lonely without you, I’m afraid. There’s no one to poke fun at the top hats anymore with, or look abhorrently about at the dreadful fashion of ladies. I suppose there is a lack of dreadful fashion as of late, with the rationing and mending. But otherwise, I do miss our evenings together, sipping on tea and smoking cigarettes, chatting idly about the weather and the stray cats you keep feeding._

_Speaking of, one of the cats has started following me home. I named her Jules because she has a white diamond mark in the middle of her forehead. She’s been catching mice for me, in fact she often brings them to my feet in the evenings like a gift. It’s quite grotesque but I assume Jules is trying to pay her rent._

_She’s a picky eater too, and refuses to eat anything that she hasn’t seen me eating. I tried to feed her tuna at first but she turned her nose up at it. At first I thought, ‘A cat that doesn’t like fish, how peculiar,’ so I picked up the plate and, you know how rationing is, decided I couldn’t let the small amount go to waste. I took a nibble, and Jules all but leaped onto the table and started eating. I was pleased it hadn’t gone to waste._

_James wrote back to me, he said you sounded like a fine gentleman and he was pleased for us, for me, that I could find such a lovely husband. He wrote sparsely about his duties but mentioned he was stationed in Plymouth for the next several months before he would be at sea again. Perhaps you will see him, and if so, do remind him that we’re always welcoming to him in London._

_I do hope Mallory is making sure you’re eating enough, I know how you are when you are all but locked into a project; time flies by you. Your mother would be spinning in her grave if she’d found out I’d let you wander off to Plymouth without so much as a cheese sandwich and a handbook on how to survive._

_Try to make some friends, dear, I know it can be terribly difficult for you but I’d worry less knowing there was someone looking out for you other than Mallory._

_Oh, and our first anniversary is next month, try not to forget it._

_I miss you with all my heart darling, and I await your response._

_Yours,_

_Eve (and Jules)”_

He smiled at her words, letting the letter settle in his hand like a soft feather, a kind weight on his palm. Q missed Moneypenny too, although they had never been truly romantically involved, he missed her companionship. London seemed so far, Moneypenny with her dainty foot work and wide smiles, striding about the streets like an unstoppable force. Heads had always turned to them, London was filled with sights, and they as a couple seemed to have a lot of eyes on them.

He goes home with the same soft smile, and writes her back.

-/-/-

**Plymouth, England, June 1940**

Q is sat with the coils of metal and cogs, working by candlelight rather than the electric bulbs because he prefers the amber flicker of candle light to the buzzing of a bulb. The others have gone home, it is just Q here, listening to the hush of the harbour.

A sharp knock from the door, and Q turns his head to see his co worker, Tanner, standing in the door.

“Everyone is at the pub tonight,” He offered, “You’re welcome to come.”

Q smiled, and let his hands cease tinkering. “Celebrating the success of Dunkirk?” He picked up his jacket from the chair, and began to walk with Tanner out of the building.

“Yes, we’ve all worked incredibly hard, especially yourself. You deserve a drink,”

“My wife hasn’t somehow put you up to this, if she has, I’ll know Tanner,”

He chuckled, “Eve is a dear friend, but so are you.”

They walk in laughing together as old friends, which they somewhat are. Tanner and he had both gone to Oxford, although Tanner had focused more on practical work rather than theory like Q. Even in university they had been a commendable pair, working together easily, brilliantly, and quoting Shakespeare at one another while sipping on glasses of cheap french wine in their downtime. It was miraculous that somehow they ended up at Devonport together, Tanner had immediately asked to transfer sites once he found out Q had been appointed quartermaster, courtesy of Eve’s letters.

Q had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, and a light smile on his face. He spotted their colleagues, and offered a friendly wave. Tanner leads him to sit with them, and grabs an unused chair from his path to drag to the table.

They’re all dressed in work clothes, although ties are looser, as are their tongue after a few pints. A few of them exhale smoke as they laugh and take drags from cigarettes. The atmosphere is pleasant, celebratory of the effort out into the evacuation of Dunkirk.

Around them, the room is crowded, plenty of navy men dressed in their whites and blues, women with painted red lips and pretty eyes, some dancing, others sitting and laughing.

Q isn’t on purpose anti-social, but he has a neglectful nature when it comes to his interactions with others, forgetting how to have conversations outside of technology and war with his colleagues. He hadn’t even found out Tanner was married until Eve had mentioned it in a letter. 

Despite that, he likes to think he knows his closet colleagues well; Ruby, or R, is his second in command, a wonderfully ruthless woman, who Q had appointed himself regardless of the curious looks some of his superiors had given at his choice; PJ, who was a rather much of a ladies man and often spent his time repairing and improving radio equipment that came in; Thomas, a rather quiet mousy man with a thin moustache, but was kind and considerate; and Finnick, a Scotsmen who had managed to find himself amongst Q’s little ruling team.

Obviously there was a larger team of minions that worked alongside them, but R, PJ, Thomas and Finnick happened to be those in leadership roles, or that the underlings had decided were worthy of being considered a leader (such was Finnick, as the man commanded respect whilst telling you stories about his life living in the Scottish highlands).

Tanner no longer worked in engineering, and now in fact had been commissioned to work under Mallory personally as a head of staff. Often the two found themselves at board meetings, discussing where to put their best efforts to aid the war. 

Ruby looks at Tanner with a teasing bright red lipped smile as they approach the table, “How’d you manage to pull Q from the cave?” She taps the end of her cigarette out into the dish, as she laughs prettily, and then takes another drag.

Finnick pulls his drink away from his mouth just to laugh with the others, Q grins at them, 

“I didn’t even think a fire would get Q out of the cave, let alone a celebratory drink,” PJ adds, “We’ll need to keep you around more often, Tanner.”

“It’s hard to say no to a pint, afterall. Speaking of,” Q gestures to the bar. They wave him off kindly, and Q is weaving his way back through the crowd again, just able to hear the jazz music that had just started playing through the jukebox. He thinks he can recognise some of the piece, something by Glenn Miller, and hums with the bounce of the piano as he waits by the bar side, elbows up against the counter.

The man next to him sips cooly on a beer, eyes focused on the opposite side of the room. Q thinks his blond hair is oddly familiar, as is the way he holds himself like he’s totally unnoticeable. As if able to sense Q’s curious gaze, he turns with piercing blue eyes and an arrogant smirk, “Evening,” He said and takes a sip of his drink.

“Evening,” Q replies, hushed against the music that has seemed to swap to something more melodic and pretty, something to softly dance to and uncannily romantic. To distract himself from the music, the gorgeous man beside him, Q fishes a cigarette from his pocket.

“What are you smoking?” The man asked, foiling Q’s attempt to disengage with him. Somehow Q had missed him turning his body to face Q, and only Q, at the bar. 

“Woodbine,” He answers, “You smoke?” “Of course,” The stranger pulls a light from his pocket, and slides it to Q across the bar. Q takes it, curious of the gesture, “Although I’m more taken by Pall Mall, myself,”

“A cigarette brand can say a lot about someone, you know,” He hands the lighter back to the man. The man smiles, half amused, “Can it?”

“Woodbine is mostly popular among the working class, Pall Mall is advertised to the higher. My guess is you’d be a man in a tophat if it weren’t for the war.”

The stranger laughs, “I’ve worked for King and country longer than the war has been on, and would never wear a tophat, but that doesn’t explain why I smoke Pall Mall.”

“Perhaps then, you just like the brand of cigarette.” 

He hums in agreement, “What about yourself?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, only that you speak in the manner of a well educated man, you call it Woodbine and not ‘bine, shouldn’t you be the one smoking Pall Mall and I, be smoking Woodbine.”

“I’ve never smoked Pall Mall before,” Q comments absently, and the man chuckles lowly, taking another sip of his drink with pale pink lips.

“I’m sure there’s a lot you haven’t done before,”

“Sorry?” Q asks, almost in disbelief at what he assumes is a proposition, an attempt to gauge his reaction, from the man. The man himself seems promising, but Q knows you can never be too careful with who you sleep with. He knows nothing about him, and anything like this could be so easily used against him.

“I only meant you seem young to be in a position of power, Quartermaster.”

“Age is no guarantee of efficiency,” He said, taking a slow drag of his cigarette once more. Q can’t say he’s oddly startled by the man knowing who he is, and yet he has only the ringing of familiarity for the man’s clean shaven chin and blindingly bright eyes. 

“And youth is no guarantee of innovation,”

“My PhD’s would disagree with that, Mr?”

“Commander Bond, James Bond.”

The first day back Mallory’s office waiting room is suddenly thrust to the front of Q’s mind. And to be fair to Q’s memory, Bond looked almost like a different person dressed in civilian clothes. The grey trousers and rolled up white sleeves did wonders for him to blend in with the rest of the crowd, not to mention his broad shoulders and forearms were well displayed to Q now, unlike before.

“I remember you,” He said smoothly, “You’re the idiot who complained about the new radios.”

Bond’s not even taken back with the call out, instead his smirk is wider, “It wasn’t fitted properly, if you read my report, you’d know,”

“For your information, I _did_ read the report, and personally oversaw the reprimanding. But nonetheless that was no need to call the entire department incompetent, and then to insult-“

“What can I get for you?” The barmaid interrupted him, looking slightly flushed for breaking off their intense discussion. Q would not call it an argument because he felt calling it an argument would mean he cared.

“He’ll have a pint,” Bond said for him, and with a quick wink at the woman she’d turned and started pouring the drink.

Q glares at him, “I hope you’re buying,” 

“I want to make it up to you, for the insult to your intelligence in my report.”

He eyed Bond curiously, took another drag of his cigarette. Q feels flushed red in his face, the room is rather crowded after all, rather hot and loud. But the urge to stay with Bond is more forthcoming than wanting to walk back to his house in the darkness to escape it. What irks him about wanting to stay, is that he doesn’t know why. The man is partially insufferable, but also endearing. 

“Thank you,” Q said as the barmaid came back with his drink, which Bond promptly paid for. The man stood straight after, one hand around his drink, and he looked at Q expectantly. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the rest of the boffins?”

Q isn’t sure this is real, but he for some reason beyond his comprehension, gawks at Bond, and then leads him to the table. At some point, Q is sure he feels fingertips ghosting on the small of his back, but he chalks it up to the brush of his loose shirt.

“Q, don’t tell me you’ve just made friends with our most famed equipment destroyer,” PJ chuckles as he sees the two of them cross the room.

“He brought my drink for me, in plea for my forgiveness,” They all grin at him,

“I should hope so,” R added, and took a sip of her own drink. 

They spend most of the night chatting with Bond, drinking splendidly into the night. Ruby announces at some point that she has to go in for curfew, PJ leaves with some soft brown eyes girl with rosy cheeks. Finnick and Thomas nod their goodbyes respectively, until it is just Bond, Q and Tanner, sitting around the table. The pub is almost empty, people shuffling out with the help of friends.

“Well gentlemen,” Tanner says, standing up and making Q glance up from ashing his cigarette, “My wife’s probably worried where I am, so I’ll say goodnight.”

They watch him leave, before Q stands up himself, and looks at Bond expectantly.

“You’re turning in?” He asked, drinking the last of whatever pint he was on.

“Yes, goodnight Commander,”

“Let me walk you home,” Bond said, standing quickly himself before Q can turn on his heel, and grabbing his jacket from the chair.

Q does feel as if he’s being slightly propositioned again, but he’s also unsure. This could be friendly, Bond might think he’s drunk too much and need a hand getting home, probably because Q sways on his feet with no decorum. 

“Alright.”

Bond beamed at him as he opened the door for Q, and let him out into the cool salty night air. 

“You really don’t need to do this, Bond, I could have gotten home myself.”

“Call me James when I’m off duty, Q.”

In the state Q is in, he doesn’t question the way that Bond- _James_ almost purrs the words into his ear. He doesn’t even think about the way James is almost pressed to his side, his hand wrapped keenly around Q’s elbow to guide him.

“Do you even know where I live?”

“No.”

Q rattled off his address to him. 

They walk peacefully, quietly in the night. Every now and then, Q stops to look up at the sky. To admire the clearness, each star dignified and independent to swarm into the most perfect image. It’s something he doesn’t get to see much of in London with all the pollution. 

They stop by the end of Q’s gate, he’s lucky to have the place to himself, some of his staff hadn’t been so lucky. “This is me,” He comments, weaving his hands behind his back.

James smiles, and presses his lips to Q’s cheek, “Goodnight, Q.” 

“James, wait,” Q finds his tone is pathetically urgent and he hasn’t even turned to leave yet. James is patient, and only quirks an eyebrow to him, “I- do you want to come in for a brew? I know the barracks aren’t all that comfortable and it’s the least I could do, for walking me home. It’s your choice if you want to stay of course.”

“Tea sounds lovely.”

-/-

**Plymouth, England, July 1940**

It’s been one month since Q had last seen Bond, the man was shipped off within the following days of their night together. Not that they got much further than kissing politely with the curtains drawn in Q’s kitchen, as Q had fallen asleep on James shoulder rather embarrassingly. 

He didn’t write to Moneypenny about it, he couldn’t because there was someone always checking, always watching, his letters. Especially now, as the Quartermaster. But he wanted to. He used to tell Eve everything about what he’d get up to, because Eve would tell him everything too. It was pleasant for the both of them, to be free in their sexuality and not to be ashamed or keep something from one another.

Bond hadn’t mentioned the wedding ring, and presumably he didn’t care. Which suited Q to a tee, for he wasn’t about to happily share information on the person who knew him better than anyone alive or dead. 

Q had drafted a few letters to James, but burnt them in the fire. A few ashes had spat back out at him mockingly, for being somewhat smitten by a man that he’d met once, maybe twice if he counted the interaction at Mallory’s office.

He couldn’t exactly write to Bond, that would be unusually suspicious of him to do so. After they had only been public with their friendship in front of his little gaggle of boffins, and that was because they’d only interacted once.

He feels like pulling his hair out. Doesn’t know what to do with himself because he’s making fantasies about having James in his bed properly. Curtains drawn and under thin sheets in the middle of summer.

“For fucks sake,” He shouts to no one, and chucks another letter into the fire. That one was to Moneypenny but he just doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell her about some mystery man, a man who probably doesn’t even want much more to do with him than a quick fling.

Then there’s a knock at his door, Q quickly gathers up the pile of unfinished letters, sketches, and shoves them into the bottom drawer of his desk. He walks out of his office and to the door.

It’s past seven in the evening, the sun is still out and Q has no idea who’s come to see him, because barely anyone knows where he lives.

He opens the door slowly, trying not to get his hopes up about it being Bond behind the door. Instead PJ stands there, worry and panic written across every fibre of his skin.

“PJ, is everything alright?”

“No, not really, may I come in?”

“Of course,” He lets PJ in, guides him to sit in the kitchen, “Would you like a tea?”

“If you don’t mind,”

“Not at all,” Q puts the water on to boil, and leans his back up against the counter, to face PJ, “What’s happened?”

“They know about me,” He said quietly, “I don’t know what to do, one of the sailors must have said something because they know about me, Q.”

“Who knows?” Q asked, anger caught in his throat because they both know what this is about. He’d caught PJ one night, slipping out of a nearby alleyway with another man.

“The higher ups, I don’t know, I got tipped off today by a friend that some secret squirrel* is asking around for homosexuals, and they’d caught onto me. _I’ll go to prison._ ”

“You won’t PJ, I won’t let them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need you as a member of staff, I’ll get them to turn a blind eye. You’re in charge of repairs and I’ll refuse to get a replacement. Just leave this with me and, for the love of god, try and sleep with women for the time being.”

“But what if they come for you, Q? For allowing this? I know you support me and you keep my secret but what if they go after you,”

“They won’t, I’m not a homosexual. Besides, it’d be illogical for them to punish me for keeping a secret.” The words roll off his tongue. But to him they don’t feel like anything more than a well rehearsed lie because throughout all his life, he’s known what he is. Kissing James, thinking about James was more than enough proof to himself that he is a homosexual. In part, Q feels bad to keep it from PJ but it’s too risky to let anyone know, especially without Moneypenny around to help dispel the rumour.

PJ holds his head in his hands and sighs, “What do I do?”

“Nothing. Appear as if nothing is wrong and you never got tipped off, it’ll go away when they realise there’s nothing they can pin you with. If anything happens, I will find a way out of it for you.”

*secret squirrel is slang for someone who is apart of MI5/6

-/-

**Plymouth, England, August 1940**

A letter arrives addressed to Q. Simple concise unfamiliar lettering with his office address on it, Q tucks it into his bag, as it arrives after his work hours, just as he’s about to leave the building.

He gets home, brews a cup of tea and opens the letter in front of him on the chair in his sitting room. 

“ _Dear Q,_

_The new installation of the radio works brilliantly on the ship, although some of the boys complain about the signal not being able to pick up the BBC. I doubt a radio in the middle of the sea would be able to pick it up._

_I did hope you’d write to me first, although it’s understandable that you have waited for my letter. I’m unsure when this will reach you, as you know the ship is headed away from England rather than to it._

_You must understand you’re a dear friend and colleague Q, it would delight me to know about Plymouth and your work while I am away. I understand some aspects may not be shared, but please tell me anything about your day, the normalcy of your work. I find you ever so fascinating, my friend._

_The rationed grog* is still tasteless here, I cannot wait to return to you, and have a pint in celebration. Oceans may separate us, friend, but I think of you as often as the sun rises._

_Take care,_

_Sincerely, your friend,_

_Commander James Bond”_

Q clutches the letter to his chest. He reads it over and over again, the words all perfect and beautiful. 

A pang in his heart reminds him how much he misses James, and this is the only physical piece of the man he has. A letter, sent from thousands of miles away, the smell of James lost on it and replaced by the heavy compact smell of bundled envelopes.

He lets a single tear of worry slip, and brushes it away with the back of his hand. As long as James is safe, as long as he never gets a telegram or a messenger sent, Q doesn’t have to hold his breath anymore when he gets a letter. Because James is alive.

*grog is a rationed mixed rum drink, thought to fight getting scurvy on ships because it was mixed with lemon. Often though, sailors would stash their ration to get properly drunk.

-/-

**Plymouth, England, September 1940**

“How’s Eve?” Tanner asked, popping into Q’s office while Q attempted to make notes with one hand and eat a sandwich with the other.

He wipes the crumbs from his mouth, “Moving back in with her parents because of the bombing.”

“That must be a relief,” 

“Very much so, she said her letters would take longer to arrive now, considering that London was more of a direct link rather than the countryside. But she has a job lined up at the post office, so perhaps she might get some sort of priority stamp.”

“I doubt it, not with the amount of war correspondent we get through,”

“Nor the sheer amount of letters.”

Tanner hums his agreement, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,”

“Commander Bond, what do you know of him?”

“Not a lot, why the sudden interest?”

“People have been gossiping,” Tanner said slowly, “They think he’s working for MI6, posing as his old rank as commander to expose spies.”

Q feels his gut sink twenty feet, “Really? This is news to me,” 

“It’s just a silly rumour, I thought I’d ask you because you two seemed close.”

“I don’t think close enough for him to expose that he’s a MI6 agent to me.” Q didn’t feel close to Bond at all in all honesty, the man was a living spectre in terms of how often he disappeared. As of current, he was alway fighting on ships and no one knew when they would return. It would be not until the current battle was over, which for all Q knew would be months. 

“Perhaps not,” He said, and smiled politely. Q nodded and took another bite of his sandwich.

Shortly after Tanner excused himself and left Q to stir in nervous air.

He couldn’t help it, not with what PJ had told him. There hadn’t been a word spoken about the secret service in months, and now all of a sudden, Tanner was asking if Q knew anything about a possible connection to James and MI6. 

-/-

**Plymouth, England, October 1940**

Boats are returning to the harbour, half wrecked and on their last legs, others more pristine and in need of internal repairs. Q branch is swept off its feet in designs, modifications, improvements, repairs. 

Q himself has been too busy to go home, hasn’t slept in his own bed in three days. His hands shake as if there’s an earthquake beneath his feet. He can’t stop working. Hasn’t touched anything to eat or drink besides the tea cup that’s routinely placed next to him. He’s practically waiting to collapse on his feet at this point and give in to the drowsiness. 

He doesn’t even notice anymore when someone opens the squeaking door to his office, not until they ask for him, “Q?”

He doesn’t look up from the equipment he’s working on, and mutters a quiet “Yes?”

The person comes closer, assessing him, “Are you not going to welcome me back?”

That makes him snap his head around faster than a flash of lightning, “James?” He exhales, and immediately grasps his arms around James’s neck. 

Bond settles his arms around Q’s lower back and pulls him close, tucks Q under his chin. Q can feel him press a soft kiss to his hair. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” He murmurs into Q’s hair, and it leaves Q’s spine prickling with tingles.

“I have been sleeping like shit, I’ll admit.”

“You need to go home and sleep,”

“Bond, I’m happy you’re safe,” He changes the subject and pushes away quickly, not warning to get caught, nor not wanting to focus on the fumes he’s running on and rather on the fact Bond has finally come back from wherever he has been at sea.

“Q, let’s get you home.”

“I can’t I have to work-“

“I’ll speak to Mallory for you, you could cause an accident in this state.”

Q grumbles as Bond writes a note explaining his absence to leave on his desk, “I’ll get in trouble for this,”

“You won’t,”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Trust me, Q.” He doesn’t quite understand the meaning of how Bond can get him off the hook, Bond isn’t higher ranking than him. But Q neglects to fight Bond on it out of sheer tiredness, and instead Q finds himself being guided out of his building and toward his house.

-/-

**Plymouth, England, November 1940**

Q made the arrangements for Bond and he to officially share the house he’d been given. It wasn’t that hard, they’d been after more space as the barracks kept filling up, and converting one Commander’s room to fit more men suited them well. 

Q was lucky no one was suspicious, not that he or Bond had given anyone reason to. Bond and he were close friends to everyone, Bond kept up his effortless flirtations and they had the picture perfect appearance of being friends. Maybe Q might have slipped up a few times, by looking at Bond too fondly when he teased Ruby in the workshop about not having a handle on the boffins.

They were living together, separate rooms but Q often found himself sleeping beside James most nights. Simply because they might have been using the bed before or Q found it difficult to sleep without Bond’s warmth pressed up against him. Some days, Bond was out of Plymouth on naval business, not that Q was ever privy to what it was about. 

They spent a lot of time in each other’s presence, relaxed in Q’s sitting room with the fire going, James going through the newspaper crossword and calling over to Q whenever he got stuck. Q would often be going through his notes from work and then James would effortlessly pluck anything work related from his hands, only to replace it with a book or hand him the newspaper that he’d already finished. 

Tonight, Bond is out again on business and Q surprisingly can’t find it within himself to do any work. He puts his work down at the desk, and rubs circles into his temples.

After a while of sitting and staring at the clock, he gets up and puts the fire out. There’s nothing for him to do, so instead Q figures he might as well go for a walk to appreciate the stars.

He finds James’s long coat that shrouds him in darkness, making him seem like a moonlight shadow. The air is fiercely cold outside but the wind is weak, only making the fabric hung around his ankles shake.

He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of the coat, and feels his fingers brush against what feels like a ball of paper. Curious, Q takes it out and unfolds the paper ball. It’s a typed out letter, just not crushed enough for Q to be unable to read some of it.

“ _London, November 5th 1940_

_Further to your requested update on October 24th which I was unable to answer personally as it came as I was leaving London for Bletch—_

_Ult— is running smoot—, alth—gh we are still unable to intercept German nav— me-sages. Make sure y—r boy in Devo—rt is working his hardest a— we won’t h—e a problem 007._

_Your ne— mission is to intercept lett— leaking infor—ation to the Soviets. You will meet 00—“_

The rest of the letter is ripped, unintelligible to Q at all, but he grips it fiercely. Afraid that it’s not real.

Bond has been using him.

Q inhales sharply, trying to process everything.

The sex, love, the fucking care and friendship with him, all of it has been fake with Bond. He’s been using it as a proxy to monitor Q. Keep an eye on him for whatever secret branch of the government he’s working for.

Q folds the letter neatly into his hand, and swiftly walks back home. He has no idea when Bond will get back, but he’s not sure what he will say, or even if he’ll say anything.

Thinking quickly, Q stuffs the ripped letter into the bottom draw of his desk, with the rest of his unfinished letters and sketches. He picked up one of the sketches, a drawing of James, with his legs spread across the living room chair, asleep with a book collapsed on his chest. It hurts him to know that it isn’t real in the way it once had been.

Months of letters, hours and days of talking, loving one another, all so simply shifted down the drain with one ripped and crumpled letter.

Q needs a drink, so he shoves the sketch away, leaving fresh tears over the pencil markings, and finds the bottle of whiskey James tries to keep secret under his bed. 

It’s several hours of crying and drinking later, going past midnight, does Bond find him. Q sat rested up against the side of the bed, staring at the ceiling with an empty look on his face.

“There you are,” James sighs in relief, but he looks at Q concerned when he doesn’t respond, “Is everything alright?”

“‘S just _dandy, 007_ ,” Q laughs and turns his head to see Bond go rigid, “Were you ever going to tell me?” 

“Tell you what, Q?” He asks, and slowly starts inching closer.

“Don’t play dumb Bond, it doesn’t suit you,” He sounds undeniably angry, “Do you even love me? Or is that just another apart of your fucking mission? To fuck me, make me feel loved, just so you can blackmail me in the end?”

“Q,”

“Stop it. Just leave me alone. I know it’s all been lies between us and you're spying on me on behalf of his majesty. Like I’m a threat to national security,”

“Listen to me, darling, please,”

“What are you going to say? That you weren’t doing that?”

“No, yes. At least not at the beginning. They’re MI6, they found out themselves that I’d befriended you. They thought that you were a valuable source, thought that’s why I started sleeping with you, to get more information,”

“And was it?”

“No, Q. Contrary to your belief, I started sleeping with you because I like you.”

“Fuck you,” He mumbles pathetically, and looks at James with watery eyes. Eventually Q stands, wobbly on his feet while Bond watches, and walks right up to the agent, only to collapse into his body. James inhales a deep breath as he hugs Q close.

The tears start again, Q cries into James’s shoulder and James runs his fingers through Q’s thick black hair. They stay warmed in each other’s embrace, locked into place like chain links, and at some point James moves them to lie on the bed. Q can’t help but curl into him.

-/-

**Plymouth, England, December 1940**

Things haven’t been the same. Not since November. Q knows he’s distant, uncertain of if he can still trust Bond’s words. Sometimes he pulls the letter out of the bottom draw just to remind himself.

He’s sure that Bond has caught on around Q’s mood in the house, they touch less, kiss less, fuck less. But Q can’t bring himself to stop being in the same bed as James, because he twists and turns, thoughts trying to drown him out of sleep. He crawls into bed with James, feels so awfully dependable on Bond. But he never misses the way Bond delicately holds him, even when he tries to appear asleep.

It makes him think he’s been overthinking it all too much. James might love him, but his love for England out weighs Q by far. Q thinks he could live with that, even though the country would imprison him for loving Bond in the first place, he knows he could live with it.

“James,” Q calls out into the house when he gets home from working late, it seems deathly silent.

There’s a sudden clatter of things upstairs to which Q rushes up and continues to call for James.

He’s sat on the bathtub, objects fallen all over the floor. He has a sewing needle and something akin to thread, grimacing every time he stabs it through the skin of his shoulder.

“James what’s happened?”

“I got shot,” 

“Why didn’t you go to the infirmary? The hospital?”

“Because they can’t know Q.”

Q keeps watching him, putting the needle in and out of his skin, “Let me do it James, your stitches are shoddy,”

He laughs, and hands over the needle, “Have at it, love,” 

They’re silent as Q patches Bond up like he’s a teddy bear who’s stuffing fell out, 

Bond breaks the silence, “They want to hire you,”

“Who does?” Q asks dumbly, focused on knotting up a stitch.

“MI6, they want you on the research-“ He grits his teeth as Q puts in another stitch “And engineering team, think you’d be good in their version of Q branch,” 

“I see,” 

“Someone is going to offer you a job, just think about it,”

“What does it mean for us?”

“You’ll see more of me, less of Moneypenny though,”

“What?”

“Your wife,”

“I know Eve is my _wife_ , James, but how do you know her?”

James immediately starts laughing, loudly, shaking the new stitches Q has out in him.

“You haven’t told her about me, have you?”

“No, I didn’t want anyone to be concerned about the true nature of our relationship.”

“Q, I’m James. As in James from her childhood.”

“Excuse me?”

“She wrote to me, about a year ago now, bragging about her fantastic genius husband, among other things. She sent me a picture of you, and said that you were eager to meet me. I thought you knew.”

“I clearly _did not_.”

James takes the opportunity to kiss him softly on the lips, “It doesn’t matter, you are so much better than in Moneypenny’s letters.”

-/-/-/-

_Epilogue_

—

**Written 24th December 1940**

**__** _“Dear Eve,_

_Merry Christmas, darling! Although I should assume that this letter may not reach you until the new year. Wish your parents a Merry Christmas from me, and tell them I’m very sorry I couldn’t be there._

_Plymouth is still just as dull without you, nothing has changed since I last wrote. Apart from the weather being colder, and the sea is rougher._

_More repairs come in during the Winter, so I am rushed off my feet most days. But we must continue on in good faith that our efforts shall help us win this terrible war._

_I should mention I have met James, I neglected to in my previous letters. I do believe that you were right that my friendship with James would be spectacular. So much so, we are having Christmas together. Of course, our colleagues will be joining us as well to celebrate the festivities._

_Although, I will miss you dearly throughout the entire celebration. It will be our first Christmas apart, I would also like it to be our last._

_My Christmas gift to you should be attached to this letter, it’s something that James actually helped me with. I know it’s only small, but I do hope you enjoy the music box. If you turn the ballerina, she will spin to music. It’s nothing too inventive but James helped me carve the wood while I worked on the mechanism._

_How is Jules adjusting to living in the country?_

_I do miss you terribly and every letter I receive from you I cherish dearly._

_Yours,_

_Q”_

—

**Plymouth, England, February 1941**

Mallory calls Q into his office. 

James Bond is stood by Mallory’s side with a ludicrously broad smile as Q walks in, and then he simpers it down to a thin line when Q takes a seat opposite them.

“Quentin, it appears that another job offer has come about for you-“

“I’ll take it.”

Mallory raises an eyebrow, “But you don’t even know what it’s for,”

“MI6? Working in their Q branch?”

Mallory turns his head and frowns at Bond, “Yes,” 

“Brilliant, when do I start?”

-/-

**London, England, April 1942**

Q taps his fingers against the thin linen of his trousers. The roll of thick black smoke from the trains doesn’t make him feel queasy, for living in London had strengthened his lungs.

Bond is looking at him, he can feel his eyes, wandering over the little movements Q makes. The deep breath Q takes when the train finally comes to a stop. James is then, suddenly swooping to his ear, whispering, “It’ll be fine Q, relax.”

Q smiles, “I’m not _scared_ of her, Bond, she’s my _wife_.” 

“Touchy, touchy,” He wraps his arms around Q’s shoulders in a friendly embrace, “But offering her a job to become a government spy, doesn’t that scare you a little bit?”

“You seem to forget who I’m currently fucking,” He gives Bond a pointed look, because they both know it’s him, and sometimes Q wants to tell the whole world it’s him, “Although, I suppose Moneypenny would make a better agent.”

“Cheeky sod,” James mutters, and looks back to the carriages with people hauling off their luggage. 

“Do you think she’ll like it, though?” He murmurs, “It’s her anniversary gift, well that and a packet of the cigarettes she likes,”

“This is your idea of a gift?” James blinks in disbelief, “A job interview and a packet of cigarettes? Really, Q? How you ever managed to get married _astonishes_ me.”

—

**London, England, May 1945**

**__** _“My dear friends, this is your hour. This is not victory of a party or of any class. It’s a victory of the great British nation as a whole. We were the first, in this ancient island, to draw the sword against tyranny. After a while we were left all alone against the most tremendous military power that has been seen. We were all alone for a whole year._

_There we stood, alone. Did anyone want to give in? [The crowd shouted “No.”] Were we down-hearted? [“No!”] The lights went out and the bombs came down. But every man, woman and child in the country had no thought of quitting the struggle. London can take it. So we came back after long months from the jaws of death, out of the mouth of hell, while all the world wondered. When shall the reputation and faith of this generation of English men and women fail? I say that in the long years to come not only will the people of this island but of the world, wherever the bird of freedom chirps in human hearts, look back to what we’ve done and they will say “do not despair, do not yield to violence and tyranny, march straightforward and die if need be-unconquered.” Now we have emerged from one deadly struggle-a terrible foe has been cast on the ground and awaits our judgment and our mercy._

**__** _But there is another foe who occupies large portions of the British Empire, a foe stained with cruelty and greed-the Japanese. I rejoice we can all take a night off today and another day tomorrow. Tomorrow our great Russian allies will also be celebrating victory and after that we must begin the task of rebuilding our hearth and homes, doing our utmost to make this country a land in which all have a chance, in which all have a duty, and we must turn ourselves to fulfill our duty to our own countrymen, and to our gallant allies of the United States who were so foully and treacherously attacked by Japan. We will go hand and hand with them. Even if it is a hard struggle we will not be the ones who will fail.”_

_Winston Churchill, VE Day speech_

The television shows the pictures of the crowds gathered outside of the balcony of the ministry of Health, people cheering wildly. Churchill standing proud with others besides him. 

Moneypenny sits next to Q, smoking a cigarette. They’re silent for a moment, not a word spoken between them, and sat in Q’s office. Outside people are working hard, already knowing the PM’s speech.

Moneypenny breaks it, “There’s still a lot for us to do then, Quartermaster,” 

“When isn’t there, Moneypenny, when isn’t there.”

“What’s James up to today?”

“Dealing with something in France, apparently. Probably hunting Nazis.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in charge of his missions, shouldn’t you know?”

“Yes, but fat lot of talking we do when we see each other,” He laughs and steals the cigarette from her.

Eve slaps his arm playfully, “Filthy bastard,”

“I could say the same about you and one Miss Ruby Bradwell.”

“How’d you know about that?”

“My boyfriend is a _spy_ , I am in charge of the entire Double O section, a group of _spies_ , of course I know.”

“You bribed the tea lady, didn’t you?”

“I _might_ have.”

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for writing this fic after watching Hacksaw Ridge, which is a movie about an American consensus objector, Desmond T. Doss. Originally, the fic was going to be more graphic about life on the front line, and having Q as a consensus objector because after watching the movie, I ended up doing a lot of research into the treatment of objectors. Often it was brutal, as the movie and my research showed me. Although, I ended up changing what role Q had in the war, because I wanted to stay true to the James Bond influence, I would still like to mention the original inspiration for this fic. I spent months working on this, and I just thought it was something important to mention the lives who did inspire this work. World War II was a massive tragedy, and I'd feel wrong not having mentioned this at some point. 
> 
> Building on that, I know that this fic is more positive than many real gay war stories, or any war stories for that matter. I thought it was also important to mention that the UK did not lift the ban on gay people in the military until 2000. This fic contains a major historical inaccuracy in that, Q, Moneypenny, and James, continued to serve after the war. Although, yes, they are in the secret service in the fic, the reality is they probably would have lost their lives. 
> 
> You may have also noticed, the note that Q finds in James's pocket reads:
> 
> _"London, November 5th 1940_   
>  _Further to your requested update on October 24th which I was unable to answer personally as it came as I was leaving London for Bletchley._   
>  _Ultra is running smoothly, although we are still unable to intercept German naval messages. Make sure your boy in Devonport is working his hardest and we won’t have a problem 007."_
> 
> (This has been modified to show what the words were)  
> This is a refence to Bletchley Park, and Ultra, which was a UK secret military operation to break German messages. I thought it was important to mention this, due to the fact I also took inspiration from the life of Alan Turing. 
> 
> Finally, Thank You for reading this. As I mentioned, I've worked on this for a while, and I hope you found it enjoyable to read.
> 
> \- noodlegoo, on tumblr and instagram, (he/him)


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